Burn it down - an argument for Armageddon

The winners of society’s rigged game expect us to worship them for it. I say never!

When I was a kid, watching the Saturday morning cartoons, I would always be on the side of the villain. They never won, but seemed much more relatable to me; I felt like an outcast myself so siding with the villain was my own form of anti establishment. I was Dick Dastardly, Wile e Coyote. I wanted Tom to kill that smug fucking mouse and use its fucking ribs for toothpicks.

So yeah, I guess you could say I got issues. Watching a quiz show contestant lose I always found way better than them winning. Somehow even that felt like a heartfelt ‘Fuck you’.

Which might explain my problem with success; with putting the famous on a pedestal. Just as winners get to write the history books, so many of those who are flaunted at us, pushed into our faces by an incessant media bombardment, come across as the smug, complacent goodies who just have to show up to win. You see them all over, these ‘hard working self made folk’ who just happen to be born-on-third-base nepo babies.

Sure, some of them also have talent. The best coaching that money can buy and the swish of every door opening for you would make it a surprise if they weren’t. But then they have the gall to turn around and say that the problem with this world is us, and our type. That if only we would listen to them, our superiors, hang on their every empty pronouncement? Am I the only one who would like to burn it all down just to feel the warmth of their screams?

See, my life took a different path, like so many. If life’s a movie, the bit I’m now living is the struggle bit, where we establish the character. Gotta say, that’s the bit I kinda most identify with. When the character does all the winning hero shit that’s when all the tension is released and the movie becomes predictable. That’s the fantasy they want us to buy from them; that we too can be special if we want it hard enough. Part of the mid life crisis is finally realising that the House always wins and that we ain’t it.

Realising the real world rewards hard work with more work and bad health, not success. Still, money doesn’t buy happiness that console us, whilst gatekeeping theirs.

I think the vast majority of us just live our entire lives in the struggle bit, there’s no happy resolution, just the ending and getting forgotten. Years and years of treading water, getting to payday; extras in other peoples’ stories. Paying off a mortgage 10 years after so called retirement age. So excuse me when I enjoy the stumbles of the elites for the infrequent highlights that they are.

If I look into the dark mirror long enough the explanation for my lapses into schadenfreude become clear. The reason why we love it so much - like a dirty little secret - when a famous person fucks up and is thrown to the media wolves, is because we get to revel in the news that they aren’t better than us after all. It’s not nice, or mature, or proper. But fuck, is it a satisfyingly cold comfort.

I’m not here to advocate for Participation Trophies all round, and especially not communism - which our tier basically has anyway - but I do think the level of societal respect accorded to this pinnacled few who proceed to pretend they got it all through their own hard work is specious and dishonest.

These people aren’t our betters, they’re exploiting us. We shouldn’t be looking up at them but running them out of their mansions.

The ones who spout socialism are the most hypocritical as they all think that come the revolution they’re going to be in charge. We are not the same. The dream of putting yourself on your own shoulders and willing yourself to greatness is and always was a mirage. It happens to others, not our kind. So frankly fuck you and go fuck your revolution. My revolution doesn’t concern itself with what comes after, because somehow a return to the time before the Industrial Revolution seems a lot more fair. I get plague, but you get it too and fuck your vaccines to the Moon.

This one goes out to all of you who fell short, whose lives got in the way. Who weren’t Mary Sue levels of talented and get how privileged we are crammed into our throats by the very same born on third base creeps who enrich themselves off of us. Especially those who want to whip us crackers with the race stick. This is for we, who do our best and keep turning up only to be crapped on by a new cohort of special ones every few years, knowing it’s never going to be our turn. That the Kool-Aid is poisoned. That to the elites we will forever be their token villain at best and an inconvenient bug to be squished at worst.

That’s why even though I know Donald Trump is a raging narcissist himself, the knowledge that he would hurt their fee fees ensures I support him. He’s Dick Dastardly to their crappy Penelope Pitstop. I hope he does burn it all down, I hope he drains the swamp and runs the grifters all the way out of Hollywood and beyond. I want them to cry, sob, call him 50 Hitlers and threaten to leave for Canada. Because for loading the stakes in this fucked up world even before I showed up the least these fuckheads can do is sustain me through their tears.